...Don’t Stop, like the Hands of Time…

After an encouraging start to 2020, I wake up to foggy, overcast and frost-bitten New Year’s Day morning. I have a longer than customary Grasse Matinée having only gone to bed around 5am. Once dropped home by Katie earlier that morning, I shower, eat and exchange New Year salutations and prayers with mum on the phone. The hours vanish before I realise.

The sombre view from my bedroom window isn’t encouraging. I will myself out of bed, make some brunch and watch a mediocre instalment of Channel 4’s Big Fat Quiz of the Year on Youtube. The word trivia couldn’t be more apt. The winning team triumph thanks to one member’s prodigious knowledge of the banal. I am somewhat grateful to be out of the loop. 

 To break the monotony of the day I venture out into the cold weather to treat myself to ice cream, cookies and half a muffin at the B Chef Café in town. I’ve decided to take a break from my continuous state of dieting over the festive period. It seems to have confused my metabolism to the point it has been even slower than usual. I can resume the good intentions later in January.

The B Chef has become one of my haunts of late. The wi-fi is more reliable than at Oh My Goodness! for a start. I also have a soft spot for the camp, relentlessly hard-working manager, Dénis. He holds down multiple jobs, including as bar manager in another establishment across town. He doesn’t even rest on Christmas day.

I’m all prepared with my New Year’s greeting but he’s not about. Maybe he’s taking a cat nap somewhere, as I hope. His no-nonsense mother is at the helm, instead.

An elderly gent won’t let me read or snack in peace, wishing me bon appetit at regular intervals and interrogating me about what I’m reading. His younger friend looks a tad embarrassed. At least it’s good language practice. When they leave, Dénis’ mum tells me to pay the codger no mind. He’s always like that.

Back home I catch up with writing buddy Pete on the phone. I become excessively irritated by his seemingly blasé approach to the NYE Watch Night tradition. Typical white privilege, I think. Takes everything for granted. I recognise I’m being over-bearing and legalistic. I apologise for getting wound-up. I wish I could say it doesn’t still mildly irritate me in the days to come. That’s something I definitely need to work on in this life season.

Later that evening, I settle down to a New Year’s day meal by candlelight watching the excellent biopic The Two Popes.

I stubbornly hold onto the 12 days of Christmas tradition, correcting anyone referring to it in past tense before 6 January. Others don’t show the same commitment. I notice that the Christmas music channel disappears from one of my preferred online radio stations as soon as the New Year hits. The decorations in the Rivetoile shopping centre don’t even make it to Epiphany. Although it would have been easier to dismantle mine during my weekly spring clean, I dutifully hold off until 6 January.

Within the first few days of the month, there are two choir-related socials to distract me from the winter blues. Our usual Friday night rehearsal is swapped for a meal organised by Pastor Richard, the choir’s founder. An email invitation is circulated but with no time specified. It takes place at a church close to where I live and yet, given the nature of the area, it’s still awkward to get to.

I arrive just as everyone is about to settle down to hors d’oeuvres. I sheepishly deposit the snacks I’ve brought. A surprising number of choristers past and present, as well as friends and family, are in attendance. Everyone loves free food, I suppose. Whilst helping ourselves to fingers foods and crisps, I accidentally bump into Pastor Richard. He makes a joke about my rear that it takes a few moments to register. It’s overheard by other guests.

That’s not kind. I reply, only half-joking. 

It’s delicate. Custom dictates that as my elder from a similar background, I show him respect. I get on well with his older daughter too. Although only loosely acquainted, she's a friendly soul whom I wouldn’t want to offend. There’s also the fact I’m not as quick off the mark in French as I’d be in English.

He responds along the lines of You should be proud of your ‘heritage’

But it bothers me.

I’m referring to his comment, not my anatomy (although the size of my behind does bother me).

Pastor Richard takes it to mean the latter.

Oh no, I like it! He exclaims.

Later, I’ll discuss my discomfort with fellow choristers.

The evening goes well enough. Some rice (from which I abstain) and meat stew is served up with a delicious vegetarian option. The conversation is cordial enough although I find myself struggling to overcome my ‘evening brain’. The words don’t flow as eloquently as I’d like.

Towards the end of the night, as dessert is served, Pastor Richard comes over to our table. He makes a beeline for me, commencing a conversation about my cultural background. It branches into discussions about West African language families and (according to him) a linguistic link between Yoruba and Hebrew, which I dispute. It segues into pre-historic African migration and genetic links with other ethnicities. I rather naively indulge the discussion, thinking it’s good language practice and hoping my misgivings are unfounded.

Pastor Richard’s wife signals to him, exasperated. We’re supposed to be wrapping up and heading home. I’m not sure if it’s our conversation that irks her, the late hour or both.

A couple of days later the choir meet again for a team building day. I join for the afternoon session, skipping out on the morning treasure hunt to go to church. On the way to our usual meeting place, I notice the carcass of a burnt out van.

Indoors, fellow chorister and choir administrator, Elisabeth shows us montages of the arson and vandalism that took place across Strasbourg on New Year's Eve. That would explain the incinerated van. It's a seasonal tradition. We watch, horrified and incredulous. 

At some point Elisabeth whispers,

I see the pastor has taken a shine to you.

Elisabeth admits she didn’t notice at first until others pointed it out. Other members in the vicinity nod their agreement. My fears confirmed, I feel profound embarrassment. As women so often do in these circumstances, I absorb the shame that should be that of the offending party.

I sensed he might be giving me undue attention, even in group settings. Yet I dismissed it, thinking-wishing-he just wanted to show off his English.

What an appalling example, I think. A supposedly married 'man of God' behaving in such an inappropriate way.

I tell my sisters-in-song of the cultural imperative to be respectful. I’ve tried to defuse the situation by calling Richard ‘uncle’ (which he doesn’t seem to like). Feisty soprano Leila tells me the direct approach is the only way to go.

Someone like that would appreciate it, she adds. Sensing my chagrin and taking pity, the girls vow to form a shield of protection around me to avoid future awkward encounters. Like bodyguards. I suggest it’s better I avoid any activities where Richard is likely to be involved. Elisabeth doesn't believe that's necessary. Just say hello and keep it moving, they advise. I’m grateful for their concern but quietly maintain avoidance is the best strategy. Mum agrees with me, when I share the dilemma with her over the phone that evening.

The rest of the afternoon doesn’t go much better. Choir director Kiasi divides us into teams to play a game that I eventually recognise as Dodge Ball. I work out the rules too late to sidestep being the first one out in the initial round. I turn down the chance to redeem my place and sit the rest of the game out. I feel less self-conscious as others are caught out. I manage to enjoy what turns out to be quite a thrilling round which our team wins, thanks to Leila the Legend. I mentally apply myself to doing better in round two, only to be summarily struck out within seconds.

If there were the sporting equivalent of tone-deaf then that would apply to me. This trivial incident triggers a deluge of humiliating sport-related childhood and adolescent memories.  One choir member, a notorious stirrer, offers me the ball to touch,

Just so you know what it’s like.

I roll my eyes and feel like telling her to stick it up the proverbial. Even if I weren’t so sensitive, it’s not as if we have that sort of rapport.

After another refreshment break and just before home time, some board games are suggested. We settle on Times Up. Hesitant to get involved straight away, I am eventually talked around. The rules sound convoluted but it’s a word game and, once again, I figure it’s good French practice.

Elisabeth offers to help me when it comes to my turn... In case there are problems with the language.

Surely, it’s not that bad, I retort. I know that her gesture is made in good faith but it feels like one more humiliation.

In the end, although not brilliant, I don’t do terribly. I’m better at guessing (give or take the odd grammatical error). When it’s my turn to give clues, I go blank sometimes under the pressure, berating myself later for using one word instead of another. The boyfriend of Elisabeth’s daughter, Lorraine mocks me when I read out the wrong clue.

I try and convince myself I’ve had a good time. Days later, when I’m still smarting from the whole incident, I concede that it was one HRGS activity I wish I’d sat out. Judging from some of the reactions of other choir members, I’m not the only one to find the whole experience underwhelming.

Maybe the combination of the failed team-building day and general January melancholy sparks off a bout of neurosis. I put a lot of the frustrations of the other day down to me still not being at ease speaking French. It bothers me that members of the choir think I’m shy. On a couple of occasions, one of the basses compliments me on being discreet but present. Each time I protest that it’s not always the case. I just come across as reserved in a French context.

True, in the scheme of things, such as the threat of yet another war in the Middle East, my hang ups are nothing at all.

Plus, when I have my post-structuralist social science hat on, I remind myself that identity is not necessarily fixed. That it’s constructed and negotiated in interaction with others. Still, it irritates and saddens me that so much of my personality is suppressed when I’m speaking French. On one hand, I know that I shouldn't care about a comment made by an obnoxious kid almost half my age; probably monolingual to boot. Yet I hate that my intelligence is called into question. I’m often not able to articulate my thoughts (which run a thousand paces ahead in any language) as smoothly or precisely.

The day after the team-building event, sis and I send each other comforting voice notes as she also tries to shake off New Year melancholia.

That evening, on the way home from a study session at B Café, a chance encounter gives me reason to hope. I’ve dilly-dallied and left the café later than I’d planned.

I accidentally press the wrong button on my MP3 player. It takes me back to the start of the mixtape I’m in the middle of. Whilst fiddling with the device to return to where I was, I overhear a conversation in American English. It sounds faith-related.

A young man is telling his interlocutors about a time that, for years, he sought clarity from God on a particular situation. I lean in as discreetly (!) as possible to make sure it’s not my imagination.

Feeling bolder to interrupt in English than I would in French, I ask if he's a Christian.

He answers in the affirmative. I apologise for the imposition, adding that the snippet of conversation I’ve heard has already been a source of encouragement. Thus sparks a brief but meaningful discussion with Jonah from Tennessee about how he came to be a missionary in Germany. His acquaintances fall silent, eventually standing aside. They look slightly put out. I can’t blame them.

After five years in Munich, Jonah still struggles with German. I share some of my own linguistic frustrations. It’s funny, I remark, how you can apparently be in the will of God and things still feel like an uphill struggle.

We part ways with a reassuring word.

This passing moment of spiritual solidarity is just what is needed to re-align my perspective.

Soundtrack: My Best of...2019 mixes.